


Gauge the shot

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Drinking, F/M, Flirting, Pool & Billiards, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: The man at the pool table never looks at her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy AUs.

The bar is always busy. There's the regulars – three cheery locals from three different lines of work; the crazy old man who sits in the corner and giggles to himself; a pack of older school students, sometimes laughing amongst themselves and sometimes sitting in broody communal silence; the other flirt, Ronald, who gets along with everyone famously; the cute gay couple who always try to pretend that they're just colleagues. Then there's the irregulars; that tall handsome man who is always accompanied by a sickly boy who's clearly not his; an Indian pair, one of whom is blatantly underage but always seems to get away with drinking anyway; the sleazy man and his beautiful dark subdued wife with one eye. Rumours say he beats her. Grell sees them all; judges them sometimes like a goddess from her near-permanent seat at the counter.

And then there's the man who plays pool.

They've never spoken – never so much as made eye-contact, really – but Grell is in love with him. Or limerence, perhaps, or simple lust; she's not certain yet. It doesn't matter which. What matters is that he's there, eight pm sharp on Tuesdays and Thursdays and nine every second Sunday, and she can watch him play from her corner of the establishment without giving anyone cause to comment. What matters is that he's beautiful, that his limbs are long and his face unlined, and that on the few occasions that she has caught snatches of his voice it is low but does not drawl, melodious without inflection. It's easy to admire the graceful curve of his body, the measured concentration in his eyes as he gauges the depth of the shot. And then the cold sharp precision with which he knocks them in, somehow always flawless. Grell has no interest in pool – has never so much as touched a cue – but one need not know a game intimately to appreciate its players.

She's good at picking up men – that's what she's here for, after all. And she's had her eye on him for some time now, waiting for the right moment; gauging the shot, as he does, so to speak.

The man at the pool table never looks at her.

His name is Will, according to Ronald, who has once or twice taken up cue against him. Apparently he talks very little and smiles even less; seems disinterested in people unless they're knocking the balls. Whether it's a simple hobby or the driving force in his life, Grell has no idea. Neither, when she asks around, does anybody else.

Eventually she decides to stop beating about the bush and actually approach him. This is easier said than done: he never seems to come to the bar itself, and has a tendency to vanish within seconds of a game's cessation. Does that mean that he doesn't like to waste time or doesn't like the atmosphere of the place? (Again, when asked, nobody can provide an answer). 

But Grell is fleet-footed and tends to get what she wants, and watches the game that night with slightly more hawk-eyed intensity than usual. When the time comes, she takes a walk.

She times it well enough that just as he puts the cue down, just as he makes to leave, she happens to be passing – and reaches out to catch his wrist. A fleeting expression of surprise crosses his face before mild disapproval sets in, so Grell justifies herself before he has a chance to speak.

“I like you.”

“I'm flattered,” is the immediate and disinterested reply, and now he does pull away. 

“Let me buy you a drink.”

The look he gives her suggests that this is an absurd suggestion to make in a pub – or perhaps he isn't used to people being so forward. “A drink,” he repeats.

“Nothing more or less than that, darling.”

“...Alright.” It's a single word that means nothing other than that he won't pass up free alcohol, but her heart leaps anyway at the potentials it opens up. The slight unconscious eye-roll that accompanies it means nothing. Grell grins, and the bartender raises his eyebrows at her when they approach.

He orders a pint of Fosters and not for the first time Grell questions her taste in men. But he's still attractive up close, looks as good seated as he does leaning over the pool table, and she can't stop herself from grinning at this minor victory.

“So your name's Will-”

His eyes flick up to meet hers and _God_ that's a glorious shade of green before he corrects her, rather shortly. “It's William.”

“-William.” What a terribly plain name for so entrancing a man. “Like the prince, then.”

He's giving her that gauging look again, as though he can't quite figure out what she's trying to achieve. “I'm afraid I don't know yours.”

“Grell Sutcliff, at your service!” She flicks her hand up in a fluid gesture – a remnant of high school flirtations, the need to stand out – and grins at him, not quite at the tipping point in the evening where she feels that he'll appreciate her tongue. He does not return the smile.

“Good to meet you.” William takes a long draught of the beer, and fails to passably pretend that he doesn't see her watching his mouth as he swallows. When it appears he doesn't intend to follow up the conversation, Grell asks another question.

“So you, ah – you work?”

_This_ triggers a reaction. The man exclaims “Of course I work! I'm in banking,” as though the thought of redundancy is something ridiculous, and after a moment of incredulous silence raises one inquisitive eyebrow. “What are you?”

“Trophy wife-to-be.” This isn't quite not true – she's an art critic – but the line is usually a winner. Tonight is no exception; to her delight William snorts into his drink, and rewards her the first smile of the night. It's a wry, dry thing, but a smile nonetheless. 

“Oh? Who's the-” his eyes flick openly down her body and then back up to her eyes - “...lucky... man?”

Taking offence would be the coward's way out, so she ploughs onward with her usual patter. “Oh, I don't quite know yet. Some tall dark stranger, I'm sure, waiting in the wings to sweep me off my feet!” Punctuating the statement with a seductress' gaze and winning smirk is entirely natural, and that her new friend rolls his eyes at the display is no deterrent. 

“This is the most embarrassingly transparent attempt at a flirtation that I've ever been subjected to,” is what he comes out with next, which makes Grell laugh.

“A handsome thing like you must see plenty of attempts, no?” She waggles her eyebrows and manages to rest a hand to his shoulder for a moment before he brushes her off. “And anyway I'd rather be transparent; it wouldn't do to lead you astray.”

There's a moment of silence which makes Grell worry that she has said something wrong, but then William says a little bemusedly, “Well, I'm glad you're honest,” and she realises that he's not actually being cold toward her – he is perhaps merely unaccustomed to this. Before she has time to process this he drains his glass, and instead of calling for another starts to pull on his coat. “Thank you for the drink – Grell.” 

He pushes the barstool back in one smooth motion, but Grell puts her hand on his arm before he can escape. It won't keep him, but nonetheless she has to ask -

“Will you be back?”

He gives her an incredibly blank look for a moment, as though he doesn't understand the question – and then says simply, “Of course.”


End file.
